The Captain

"Ugh," Harry moaned as he jolted awake.

With the world a spinning blur, Harry tried to retreat to the comfort of sleep. Then a painful jolt sparked through his body.

"Err-owww," Harry slurred in complaint.

In the haze his eyes were forced to open to, he almost thought he saw Cassius' face. For some reason, the third-year's face looked as wide as three. Or did Cassius have three faces?

"Mmmph!" Harry complained as sparks jolted through his body again.

"Do you mind?" Cassius growled.

"Hurts," Harry whined.

"I can make it hurt more," Cassius threatened in a rather cold tone.

"I'm up, I'm up!" Harry promised as he propped himself up just before Cassius could bring his wand to bear again. But why the third year was angry with him eluded him.

"Do you remember what day this is?" Cassius asked in a somewhat civil tone.

"Uh…Saturday?" Harry asked. Then it hit him.

"Oh my God!" he shouted as he sprung up from the couch, only to fall on his face.

"Now he remembers," Cassius drawled.

"What's the time?" Harry asked desperately as he picked himself up and began to run — not in the straightest line — toward the grand doors that led out of the common room and house.

"6:01," Cassius provided.

"Hell!" Harry exclaimed as he approached the doors.

"He'll be mad that you're late, but he'll be livid if you stand him up," Cassius informed Harry as the eleven year old burst through the doors.

Harry ran through the halls, somehow retaining a perfect memory of the paths he followed the Quidditch team down despite his drunken state. But when he approached the false wall, he found himself at an actual dead end.

"Let me in!" Harry exclaimed at the doors, to which there was no response.

"LET ME IN!" Harry shouted at the doors, knowing that the snakes-sounding voices could hear him.

Should we? a tenor-pitched rasp sounded from within the wall.

Rather desperate, is he not? a harmonic female voice noted.

No composure, a deep voice derided.

Inebriated, an icy female voice added.

Lacks conviction, the baritone snake voice judged.

"Please, I need to!" Harry begged.

Beggar, the icy female voice sneered back.

He has manners, I suppose, the kinder female voice offered.

All the same, Harry could feel his connection with the door receding. He had to do something quickly if he was to have any chance.

"Let me in," Harry said again. But he wasn't begging this time.

Better, the deep voice complimented.

But good enough? the tenor-pitched voice asked.

"In the name of Slytherin, let me in," Harry stated with authority, forgetting that just a minute before he was a stumbling drunk.

Acceptable…for now, the baritone snake leader decided.

The solidity of the wall gave way, allowing Harry to run forward into a wide hallway lined with golden serpentine carvings and various faces carved into the stone walls — an apparent hall of fame.

At the end of the hallway, Harry was met with the largest facial carving — one that took up the expanse of the door.

"Corvinus Gaunt — one of our greatest alumni," Captain Flint informed as he emerged from the shadows behind Harry.

"He made this?" Harry asked as he decided that he had either gone half-deaf or some wizards had a magical way to sound-proof themselves.

"The arena beyond us too," the tall, muscled captain said. "Meant to get top Slytherins into their best shape. Usually, you've gotta be one of the strongest in the House for the doors to even notice you. But legend has it there's special favor for his descendants."

"I…well, I don't think…" Harry started as he scrambled to find a way out of this apparent trap.

"No need for modesty," Flint cut off. "Salazar Slytherin created this school for his son. And as the first of Slytherin blood to attend since the original heir, Corvinus Gaunt simply continued the family trend. Your family's trend."

"What gave me away?" Harry asked.

"Always thought only one of the Dark Lord's kin could've beat him," Flint answered. "Especially as a baby."

"You beat me the other day," Harry pointed out.

"You're untrained," Flint returned matter-of-factly. "Kept that way by Dumbledore till now. But when it comes to raw talent…"

Harry instinctively caught the weapon Flint hurled at his face while pivoting to the side, only to realize he was just holding a golden ball.

"You've got what it takes alright," Flint complimented. "When Draco's not making a fool of you, anyway."

"Ugh…that duel…" Harry muttered as he remembered how Draco stood him up. And tipped off that horrible Filch man.

"You've figured out why he set it for last midnight, right?" Flint questioned as he walked in front of the Corvinus door, after which he said some words that revealed the arena beyond.

"Well, um, it was a Friday…" Harry offered.

"I'll give you a hint. It was the same reason he got you drunk when you came back," Flint added as they walked forward.

"Uh, to play a prank?" Harry guessed unsurely. He knew somehow this was the wrong answer, but he couldn't figure out what Flint was aiming for.

"Oh no," Flint muttered under his breath. "I think Draco's mentioned to you that he's looking to take the open seeker spot next year, right Mr. Gaunt?"

Don't know how I feel about that, Harry considered the sound of his apparent Slytherin family name. No potty jokes, but Mr. Gaunt sounds like a vampire or something.

"Well, yes…um…wait no, you can't be saying…" Harry stammered to an awful conclusion.

"That's exactly what I'm saying," Flint said with a glint in his ocean-blue eyes. "Welcome to Slytherin. Now, I want to see for real if you're better than all the hopefuls I'll have to watch in tryouts a little later. Try not to throw up."

Unfortunately, Harry did throw up. His broom maneuvers however seemed to impress the captain enough to make up for it.

"If that's you plastered, you might make Terence break a sweat when sober," Flint intoned.

"Really?" Harry asked with a grin as he did a final bicycle loop before hovering his broom next to the captain.

"Just one sweat," Flint added dryly with a minuscule tip of his head to Harry's drenched face.

Harry deflated a bit at that.

"In any case, I think you've demonstrated just enough talent to be Terence's shadow this year," Flint continued. "You'll report to practice with the rest of the team, sober, and partake in all our drills and exercises. And if Terence gets sick or injured before a match, I expect you to beat whatever starting seeker you're put against to the snitch. If you don't, we both know someone else who'd like a crack at your spot."

Harry gulped.

Flint then hurled him a large towel. Just as Harry moved it toward his face, the captain instead pointed behind and to the left of Harry.

"This arena's guarded against the castle elves," Flint said. "And vomit doesn't clean itself."

Used to cleaning, Harry made his way over to his own mess without a hitch as the captain, his captain, made his way toward the arena entryway.

"One other thing," Flint called out as the doors opened for him. "You've been smart not to tell people you're a Gaunt. Your family was powerful once, maybe the most powerful. But you look like you're the only one left. Many wizards would love to put their name in the history books as the one to finish off the Gaunt dynasty."

"Gaunts are the only ones that can talk to snakes, right?" Harry asked as he finished cleaning with the somewhat magical towel.

"No hissing if you don't want to leave Hogwarts in a coffin," Flint confirmed before he walked into the hallway beyond.

Harry returned to his House in a very good mood, humming even as he took his shower.

The week wasn't even over, but it was easily the best of his life. He entered a world where he wouldn't be pushed down 24/7 to make some nitwit look like he was worth a pound. He found out the truth about his "demonic" power. He finally got to make friends, friends who weren't ashamed to talk to him in front of others. He impressed the captain of the best sports team at Hogwarts, and that captain gave him a spot on the team and details on his family to go with it. Maybe best of all, Harry now got weekly one-on-one time with the coolest teacher at the school!

Thank God we don't have practice on Friday, Harry thought excitedly.

Even Draco's shenanigans ultimately worked out for Harry — he was still beautifully buzzed when he stepped out of the shower and dried himself. And speak of the devil…

"You're having a good morning," Harry's blond roommate grumbled at him from the sinks in an uncharacteristically subdued tone.

Harry grinned.

"That wine was good," Harry praised, even though it wasn't the true source of his happiness.

"Not good enough," Draco mumbled to himself.

"Hey, it was fun, right?" Harry said, hoping to get Draco to like him enough to not stay too mad about the seeker thing. With Nott hating his guts, he couldn't afford for Draco to become an enemy. Besides, Draco was actually fun to talk to…even when Draco had been trying to sabotage him.

"Perhaps we shall do it again soon," Draco said in his airy rich boy voice.

"Bet," Harry said while holding out a fist the way he'd seen Dudley do with his friends. But Draco looked confused, so Harry just withdrew his hand.

"So, what are you up to today?" Harry asked as he began to brush his teeth.

"Well I suppose I will go to breakfast if you wish to provide company," Draco said.

"Sure!" Harry returned enthusiastically, glad Draco wasn't dwelling on his anger.

"Malfoy manor lies on one of the Inner Hebrides islands off the west coast of Scotland," Draco explained his living situation as Harry downed his excellently prepared rye toast, creamy scrambled eggs, lamb meat pies, bacon and Gruyère cheese. "It's the most beautiful of them all, so naturally we charmed the muggles into forgetting about it."

"They can't fly over it and take photos?" Harry asked.

"Generational Malfoy magics are more than a match for feeble muggle minds," Draco said proudly. "Besides, they've convinced themselves there are only 79 islands in that chain. Who are we to tell them differently?"

"How nice of you," Harry returned with a smile. Both chuckled.

"Now, you still have yet to tell me where you live," Draco continued invitingly. "How will I know where to send my owl?"

"Wouldn't your owl track your memory of my soul signature?" Harry asked, going off of his readings.

I still have to find a name for mine, Harry thought with slight glumness.

"But your dwelling place hides your signature, no?" Draco countered.

I guess, Harry thought.

However, Harry held no intention of returning to those muggles in Surrey, not that they'd even take him back. So as of now, he had no "dwelling place." Then again, he was rich.

"Actually, I'm bored with my old house, and I wanna buy a new one," Harry told Draco. "Any suggestions?"

"Well, it depends what you're looking for," Draco said. "First, are you a muggle lover?"

"No," Harry replied with more venom than he intended.

"Well, that's refreshing to hear from a Potter," Draco returned with a smile. "Guess that's how the hat put you with us. I'm also assuming you're not looking to be anywhere near the ruins of your ancestral mansion or Godric's Hollow?"

I have an ancestral mansion? Harry realized with surprise. Wait…he said ruins.

"Uh…no," Harry made the split second decision.

"Looks like you're going to northern England then, or perhaps even here in Scotland," Draco said. "Off the top of my head, the Yorkshire, Northumberland, New Castle, Cumbria and Durham regions of England would best suit you. I also believe one of the Saint Tudwal's Islands is still up for grabs. As for Scotland, much of the northern regions are unpolluted by muggle-kind. Unfortunately, you'll have to deal with tourists on some of the best islands."

"I'll look into it," Harry promised both Draco and himself.

"Do let me know how the house hunt goes," Draco said with excitement in his eyes.

"Draco!" an angry young voice called out. Both Draco and Harry recognized it immediately.

"Hello to you too, Anthony," Draco began mockingly. "Beautiful morning, isn't it? You know, I just walked by the House hourglasses…"

"You talked about 'honor,' and then pulled that on us!" the irate golden-blond boy yelled as he stormed toward Draco.

"But there was a duel last night — a duel of the mind! Your favorite kind, right?" Draco taunted. "At least our friend here slithered away before losing points for his House."

Really, Harry groaned internally as Draco redirected some of Anthony's fury to him.

"You're seriously sitting with him like nothing happened!" Anthony demanded.

"We can't change what happened," Harry sighed. "It was mean. Very mean, Draco. But I guess we can try and move on? Maybe share some of your wine with him, Draco. It's very good Anthony, I really recommend."

"He's probably poisoning you," Anthony growled bitterly.

No, he only tried to poison my tryouts, Harry thought as he reflected on just how mean Draco could be. But there was still something about him that Harry truly liked, and it had nothing to do with the Nott dilemma.

"Look, Draco won't do that again, right Draco?" Harry looked across at his favorite roommate.

"Of course not," Draco easily replied.

"He won't pull the same trick twice, he means," Anthony snarled. "Look, Harry, I know this guy. You'll get along swell for a while, and he'll make you think he's really your friend. But when he gets jealous of you — when, not if — he'll stab you in the back and try to tear you down. That's who Draco Malfoy is."

"Wow, sounds personal," Draco sneered.

"It is, bosom bud," Anthony spat out.

Harry shifted awkwardly as the former (best?) friends glared at each other.

"Why don't we help him get Ravenclaw points back?" Harry tried to diffuse the situation.

It didn't work.

"We?" Anthony sneered.

"Help him?" Draco scoffed simultaneously.

"Already sank your fangs into him, huh?" Anthony accused Draco.

"He has a mind of his own. You should try it sometime," Draco haughtily replied.

"Once you betray him, who will you have left?" Anthony asked with a smirk. "Guess you'll slither back to Nott."

"Admit it. You wish you were in Slytherin," Draco returned with a near identical smirk. "Ravenclaw is but a pale imitation of my great House."

"Always about House this, bloodline that…" Anthony fired back.

"As if your family isn't just about marrying into money," Draco riposted.

"You're thinking about Zabini," Anthony retorted.

"His mother remains untainted by muggles…" Draco returned as the argument accelerated in pace, with the two soon yelling over each other.

Harry figured their friendship ended rather recently, maybe within the past few months, since they easily got under one another's skin and clearly had a lot of knowledge of how each other thought.

On the one hand, Harry had spent his whole life wishing for a real friend, so he was a bit angry that they'd thrown away their apparently brother-like bond. On the other hand, this argument made Harry afraid of the betrayal he'd inevitably expose himself to by getting close to Ron, Hermione or anyone else.

Harry held much deeper secrets than he could have ever guessed a week ago. His connection to the Gaunts was likely the reason the Headmaster stuck him with magic-hating muggles for a decade — muggles who constantly tried to beat the magic out of him and threatened to kill him multiple times. Obviously people like Hagrid knew about Harry's heritage too and were in on Dumbledore's plans. Additionally, guys like Captain Flint figured out the secret within a week! If Harry wanted to make it in this world, he'd need people he could trust to have his back no matter what. But what if he made a mistake?

Anthony and Draco apparently thought their friendship was the biggest mistake they ever made, and they were now hurling the worst insults they could think of at each other. But at least they were doing it at a corner of a table at 8:15 a.m. on a Saturday. What if a former friend of Harry's stood up in the middle of the Great Hall during a feast and shouted "Harry's a Gaunt!" From what Flint said, Harry might have to flee the country!

Speaking of, I need to figure out what connection the Potters have to the Gaunts, Harry determined. With that, Harry managed to scoot away from the very angry blonds shouting at each other across from him, fingers pointed into each other's chests. They didn't seem to notice him walk away, which gave Harry cause to sigh with relief.

4:13 p.m.

"Yes!" Harry exclaimed as he finally confirmed his theory of the past hour-and-a-half.

Scratch that, two hours, Harry realized as he looked at the nearest clock from his corner of the library.

"Sorry," he mouthed at Madam Pince as she gave him a look, but without the harshness she gave to other students who caused disturbances. Harry could barely contain his excitement though. He'd cracked the mystery of how he could both be a Gaunt and a Potter.

It was quite simple actually, but few would dare guess it given the Potters' storied history as quintessential proponents of liberty and justice in the Wizarding world. An esteemed lineage of businessmen, Wizengamot warlocks, Ministry representatives and executives, the Potters always stood at the forefront of democratic development, civil rights expansions, justice reform, peace advocacy and muggle tolerance. Yet though they championed diplomacy, time and again they ranked among the greatest warriors in times of bloodshed. And from what Harry could tell, the Gaunts almost always fought opposite the Potters.

So who in their right mind would accuse three generations of Potters — four including Harry — of being closet Gaunts?

But Harry discovered the truth. His great-great grandfather, Henry Potter — one of the most notable members of the entire family — never married. And as none of Henry's reported romances claimed Fleamont Potter as their son, Fleamont's mother was one of the Potters' most well-kept secrets according to the Secret History of the Potters. While many wizards initially assumed Fleamont's mother to be muggle, Fleamont's quick rise to top Hogwarts student disabused contemporary wizards of the notion he could be a half-blood.

Ha, Harry scorned their bigotry.

Making things even more interesting, a young Henry Potter was the greatest enemy of Lord Corvinus Gaunt. The noble Corvinus was a war profiteer who apparently goaded the British Empire into most of its 18th century wars. As these wars happened to be some of the most destructive pre-World War 1, many wizards assumed this was his way of causing mass muggle death following Gormlaith Gaunt's failed crusade the previous century.

Corvinus' crusade ended with his bloodiest scheme: the Napoleonic wars. Wizards considered the muggle conflict to be a proxy war between pro-International Statute of Secrecy wizards, a faction Henry quickly came to lead, and the then aged Corvinus. Henry won when he slew Corvinus in single combat during the 1814 Battle of Paris, the very battle which forced Napoleon into exile.

Sometime soon after the war though, Henry must have hitched with a Gaunt to make Fleamont. Specifically, Corvinus' granddaughter, whose existence Harry just confirmed.

Guess it's like Batman and Talia Al Ghul, Harry figured as he remembered those old comics he managed to smuggle into his cupboard.

As for why Potters didn't start going into the Slytherin house with their new…connection? The biographies, chronicles and histories on the Potters had an answer for that too. Just like the Gaunts were descended from Salazar Slytherin, the Potters were one of two modern bloodlines presumed to have descended from Godric Gryffindor.

In fact, I'll bet Potters did their best not to land in Slytherin, Harry thought a bit glumly. But without his father to tell him the family history before his sorting, Harry would have to work extra hard to keep the family secret intact. He couldn't fail four generations of Potters.

With the mystery of Gaunt-Potter solved, Harry figured he should enjoy his down time before his first Quidditch practice the next day.

A five hour practice.

September 7

"Ready?" Cassius asked with a pat on the back as he and Harry made their way with the rest of the team to the practice arena.

"No," Harry answered with a bit too much honesty.

"Think of it this way, he mercifully starts practice at 7 on weekends," Cassius offered.

How merciful, Harry dreaded.

"Move faster, ladies!" Flint barked from the front as he picked up the pace for some reason, causing Harry to have to outright jog.

All too soon, they reached the supposed dead end. Harry heard the five serpentine voices give a very brief appraisal of Flint before admitting him and all he brought along. The hallway beyond was familiar, but instead of leading them to the Corvinus door, Flint stopped about nine or ten statues down on the left side of the hall. He cast a bright Lumos charm that seemingly activated lighting in the entire hallway, transforming the previously shadowy passageway into a white-lit corridor.

"Look closely," Flint instructed as he pointed to a very handsome, strong-jawed facial carving. "This is Randolph Lestrange. In his seven years on the Quidditch team, five of which he served as captain, Slytherin didn't lose a single match. Each year, he brought the cup home for his House without fail. In the forty-eight years since his graduation, no Hogwarts Quidditch captain has come close to his record."

"But that changes with us," Flint stated as he turned to the team. "Maybe I'll lead for only four years. But in my two as captain so far, Slytherin claimed the Quidditch cup, as they have all four of my years on the team. Slytherin has not lost a single match. Both these past two years, Slytherin shattered the previous season point-total record. And by the end of next season, I will dethrone Lestrange as the captain with the highest point-total period."

"Why am I so confident? Because of you," Flint declared. "You are the best the House has to offer. If you don't know it yet, you will by the time I'm through with you. Because I will run you ragged. I will ask you for more and more until I break you. And when you think you have nothing left in the tank, I will ask for more than ever before."

"Each and every one of you will curse my name," Flint promised. "If not, I've failed you. And if I fail you, we fail our House and our founder. Now, for welcomes. Cassius Warrington, welcome to the starting line-up. Harry Potter, welcome to the shadow position. Now, for you Harry, things will be a little different than most shadows since you're a firstie. School rules means you have to be under the table, or Wood will run to Dumbledore. And we all know how our dear Headmaster will rig things for his old House any chance he gets."

"So no sitting with you at meals and no talking too much about Quidditch?" Harry asked.

"You're a bit smarter when you're sober," Flint said, getting chuckles from the team. Graham Montague gave Harry a teasing shoulder-bump from the left side.

"You were drunk that night too," Harry whispered back to the beater in mock protest.

"He didn't have to report to me the next morning," Flint answered for Graham. "Also, speak only when spoken to, firstie."

"Yes," Harry answered.

"Sir," Flint insisted.

"Sir, yes sir," Harry repeated to the quiet amusement of the team.

"We'll see if you still got that spunk at the end of practice," Flint said with a dangerous grin. "Terence, take him through your warm-up drills, then go head to head for the snitch."

As a true — if not secret — member of the team, Flint provided Harry with a high-class Comet 260 instead of the Cleansweep Seven broom he used for tryout, which itself had been miles better than the weak "Shooting Star" model he used for flying lessons.

So naturally, Harry lost to Terence every time for four-and-a-half hours straight.

"You might have made me break a sweat that time," Terence half-complimented as he helped Harry up from a particularly nasty fall on their last round.

"Just…one?" Harry rasped out as his head swam.

"Just one," the sandy-haired prefect returned with a victorious grin.

"Ugh," Harry groaned as he did his best not to collapse or vomit from the dizziness.

6:40 a.m., September 12

"So how goes Quidditch practice?" Professor Quirrell suddenly asked as they watched the Scottish Highlands' beautiful sunrise in the middle of their walk.

Harry jerked his head at the professor in shock.

"Ah, you must forgive me, but yesterday lunch, your Head of House didn't give a good answer as to why the Slytherin team didn't register a shadow," Professor Quirrell explained.

"Oh," Harry said, wondering if the jig was already up.

"I presume Marcus told you to keep your role a secret?" the professor asked, to which Harry nodded. "Rest assured, it still is. The general assumption is that Draco Malfoy's the shadow."

"What gave me away?" Harry asked curiously.

"You did just now," Professor Quirrell said with a chuckle. "But I figured you would have a special talent for flying with your lineage. James Potter became a seeker in his second year, after all."

"You knew my father?" Harry asked with surprise.

"Can't say I did," the professor responded, at which Harry deflated a little bit. "He was in Year 1027, ten classes before me. He was still talked about a lot though when I got there. Gilderoy Lockhart — year above me, presumptuous fellow — always said 'not even James did this' to try and get us to see how great he was."

"Did it work?" Harry asked.

"No," the Ravenclaw alum answered with a chuckle. "Not to say Gilderoy didn't do well enough for himself. He was both a prefect and Quidditch captain. But he always fell short of his gold standard."

Harry smiled at hearing his father was a gold standard. And to think those muggles dared slander him as a drunk Satan worshiper. It was Vernon who was the drunk!

"How intense was he as a Quidditch captain?" Harry asked out of curiosity.

"I suppose I am not the best source, as I never played," Professor Quirrell answered. "But if you're wondering in comparison to Marcus, I hear Marcus is especially intense as far as captains go."

"He wants to beat Randolph Lestrange's record," Harry offered. He didn't know if he should just go around saying it, but conversation always flowed easily with his favorite professor.

"Randolph Lestrange…interesting," Professor Quirrell mused.

"Why?" Harry wondered what made the professor give that particular reaction.

"Most do not speak his name," the professor explained. "He was one of the Dark Lord's first and most faithful Death Eaters. Perhaps his most faithful."

Harry let out a small gasp.

Then again, do you have room to judge Mr. Gaunt-Potter? a small voice scolded at the back of his head.

"Good to know," Harry settled with.

"It doesn't disturb you that your captain emulates Randolph?" Professor Quirrell asked.

It did rankle Harry a little. Then again, how many people — wizards, they're wizards, not just people — kissed the ground that Dumbledore walked on? And between Randolph Lestrange and Dumbledore, who made Harry's childhood hell?

"I think different people think of different things as good and evil," Harry answered. "The muggles who raised me worshiped God every Sunday, but I'm pretty sure the NSPCC should've been called on them a few times looking back."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Professor Quirrell said with compassion, but not pity.

"Thanks, but it's the past," Harry returned. "They'll never hold me back again."

"That's an excellent point of view," the professor said with a smile. "I have found that almost every truth we hold is but a point of view. And that the truths accepted by the masses are simply those enforced by the powerful."

"I agree," Harry said genuinely.

Christianity was considered "good," but all that ever came out of it for Harry was a decade of enslavement for being "demonic." Dumbledore was considered "good," but he was the very reason Harry had been lower than an elf for a decade.

Voldemort's called bad, but at least he was going to give me a quick death, Harry determined as he briefly considered his theory that Dumbledore had actually been hoping for the muggles to off him before he got his Hogwarts letter.

Not to mention it took an entire month for one of Dumbledore's agents to "find" me, despite that agent being the one who left me with those muggles! Harry remembered bitterly.

"You said Lestrange was one of the first to join the Dark Lord?" Harry asked. "What do you think Lestrange saw before the others? In the Dark Lord particularly, before the movement picked up steam?"

"That is the question, isn't it," Professor Quirrell said with a small smile. "A revolutionary's first followers are the truly special ones. The ones who believe before the movement becomes 'cool,' shall we say."

Harry wouldn't exactly call the wizard version of Nazis cool, but he wouldn't wrangle over a figure of speech.

"Perhaps the fact he was such a great Quidditch captain had something to do with it," the professor opined. "He had to possess a special insight into the potential of every player he selected, far before it fully blossomed. I suppose he used this same judgment for Lord Voldemort. A bold move so soon after Grindelwald's defeat."

"What do you think of Grindelwald?" Harry asked.

"That could take up an entire walk, I'm afraid," Professor Quirrell postponed. "But suffice to say, after Grindelwald's attempt to overturn the international establishment failed, many wizards bristled under the status quo of surrendering the planet to muggles. But no one provided an answer for this anger until the Dark Lord. Even then, Randolph took a leap of faith. One he paid for with his life in the end. But his sons thought it was worth it, as they ranked among the few who made no attempt to deny their lord when paraded before the Wizengamot."

Harry respected that. Not the Lestranges' views, of course. Blood purity was as nonsensical as muggle racism, and wizards should be better than that. But Harry respected that the Lestranges stood by their actions and allegiances to the bitter end. Because if there was one thing Harry truly hated, it was people who abandoned you when you needed them. Oh, how many times his "friends" would deny him in the face of Dudley, before leaving him forever.

12:13 a.m., September 13

And this remained on Harry's mind as he sparred with Ron in the forbidden corridor past midnight — a weekly event they'd decided on. After all, who would think they'd come back to the very location Filch had surprised them at?

"Ooof," Harry cried out in surprise as he slipped on black ice Ron conjured and landed flat on his back, skull bouncing off the ground.

"You alright?" Ron said as he outstretched his left hand. Naturally, Ron kept his wand trained at Harry's throat with his right hand.

"Yup," Harry answered as he took his best friend's hand.

"Don't worry, I hadda pick up a lotta tricks to fend off my brothers," Ron said with an encouraging smile.

"That was a good one," Harry complimented to which Ron beamed.

"I'm gonna have to savor every time that I can beat you," Ron said. "You're already more powerful, so it's only a matter of time."

"Your friendship's what really matters to me," Harry responded as the two shared a smile, then a brief hug.

First followers are the truly special ones.

Harry wouldn't ever think of Ron as a follower. But it meant a lot that Ron stood by him when he found out that the "Boy-Who-Lived" was far less powerful than he expected. And the fact that Ron was risking Filch-style punishment to give Harry dueling practice so he could catch up? He made a better friend than Harry could have imagined.

Harry did worry though about Ron's family. It wasn't that Mrs. Weasley was the Muggle Studies teacher — that had been Professor Quirrell's old job. It was that Mrs. Weasley seemed rather close to Dumbledore. She could very well be in his circle beyond Hogwarts.

And the fact was, Dumbledore was an enemy. The enemy, perhaps. Harry had no doubt he'd one day have a showdown with Britain's most powerful wizard if he wanted to be truly free. On that day, he'd need everyone who stood with him to be as loyal to him as he'd be to them.

But could he ask Ron to stand against his own mother if it came to that? And how ever many of his brothers chose Dumbledore's side?

Harry shook his head as he put that question off for later. For now, Ron was the best friend he had, and every day they spent together they grew closer and closer.

And they met every Friday at midnight in the forbidden corridor. Every Friday till Halloween.